Gertrude

by Hermann Hesse

  "All the same, you must turn over a new leaf, Muoth! It is not as if drinking made you happy! You are absolutely wretched! If singing is too much for you at the moment, ask for a leave of absence; you would obtain it immediately. You are not dependent on the money that you earn by singing. Go into the mountains, or to the sea, or wherever you like, and get well again. And give up that stupid drinking! It is not only stupid, it is cowardly. You know that quite well."

  He smiled at that. "Oh yes," he said coolly. "You go and dance a waltz sometime! It would do you good, believe me! Don't always be thinking about your stupid leg. That is just imagination!"

  "Stop it," I cried angrily. "You know quite well that that is different. I would very much like to dance if I could, but I can't. But you can quite well pull yourself together and behave more sensibly. You must definitely give up drinking."

  "Definitely! My dear Kuhn, you make me laugh. It is just as difficult for me to alter and give up drinking as it is for you to dance. I must cling to the things that still keep up my spirits. Do you understand? People who drink are converted when they find something in the Salvation Army or elsewhere that gives them more satisfaction and is more enduring. There was once something like that for me, namely women, but I can no longer take an interest in any other woman since she has been mine and has now forsaken me, so--"

  "She has not forsaken you! She will come back. She is only ill."

  "That is what you think and that is what she thinks herself, I know, but she will not come back. When a ship is going to sink, the rats abandon it beforehand. Obviously, they do not know that the ship is going under; they only feel touched by a slight sensation of nausea and run away, no doubt with the intention of soon returning."

  "Oh, don't talk like that! You have often despaired in your life and yet things have turned out all right."

  "True! That is because I found some consolation or narcotic. Sometimes it was a woman, sometimes a good friend--yes, you too once helped me that way--at other times it was music or applause in the theater. But now these things no longer give me pleasure and that is why I drink. I could never sing without first having a couple of drinks, but now I cannot even think, talk, live or feel tolerably well without first having a couple of drinks. Anyway, you must stop lecturing me, whatever you think. The same situation arose once before, about twelve years ago. Someone lectured me then also and did not let me alone. It was about a girl, and by a coincidence it was my best friend--"

  "And then?"

  "Then I was obliged to throw him out. After that I did not have a friend for a long time--as a matter of fact, not until you came along."

  "That is evident."

  "Is it?" he said mildly. "Well, you can drop me too. But I will say that I would be sorry if you left me in the lurch just now. I am attached to you and I have also thought of something to give you pleasure."

  "Have you? What is it?"

  "Listen. You are fond of my wife, or at least you used to be, and I am also fond of her, very much so. Now let us have a celebration tonight, just you and me, in her honor. There is a special reason for it. I have had a portrait of her painted; she had to visit the artist frequently earlier in the year and I often went with her. The portrait was almost ready when she went away. The artist wanted her to sit once more, but I grew tired of waiting and ordered the portrait to be delivered as it is. That was a week ago, and now it is framed and arrived here yesterday. I should have shown it to you at once, but it would be better to have a celebration for it. It would not be much good without a few glasses of champagne. How could I enjoy it otherwise? Do you agree?"

  I sensed the emotion and even the tears behind his joking manner and I cheerfully agreed, although I was not really in the mood for it.

  We made preparations for the celebration in honor of the woman who seemed so completely lost to him, as she was in fact to me.

  "Can you remember which flowers she likes?" he asked me. "I don't know anything about flowers or what they are called. She always had some white and yellow ones, and also some red ones. Do you know what they are?"

  "Yes, I know some of them. Why?"

  "You must buy some. Order a cab. I must go up to town in any case. We shall act as if she were here."

  He did many other things that made me realize how deeply and incessantly he had thought about Gertrude. It made me both happy and sad to observe this. Because of her, he no longer kept a dog and he lived alone, he who previously could never be without women for long. He had had a portrait of her painted. He asked me to buy the flowers she liked. It was as if he had taken off a mask and I saw a child's face behind the hard, selfish features.

  "But," I objected, "we ought to look at the portrait now, or this afternoon. It is always better to look at pictures by daylight."

  "Does it matter? You can look at it again tomorrow. I hope it is a good painting, but in truth that is not so important; we just want to look at her."

  After a meal we traveled to town and made some purchases, first of all flowers, a large bunch of chrysanthemums, a basket of roses and two bunches of white lilac. He also had the sudden idea of having a large quantity of flowers sent to Gertrude in R.

  "There is something lovely about flowers," he said thoughtfully. "I can understand Gertrude being fond of them. I like them too, but I cannot take the trouble to look after anything like that. When there is no woman to attend to them, they always seem to me to be uncared for and do not really give me pleasure."

  In the evening I found that the new portrait had been placed in the music room and was covered with a silk cloth. We had had an excellent meal, after which Muoth wished first to hear the wedding prelude. When I had played it, he uncovered the portrait and we stood facing it for a while in silence. Gertrude had been painted full-length in a light summer dress, and her bright eyes looked across at us trustfully from the portrait. It was some time before we could look at each other and take each other's hand. Heinrich filled two glasses with Rhine wine, bowed to the portrait, and we drank to the woman about whom we were both thinking. Then he carefully picked up the picture and carried it out.

  I asked him to sing something, but he did not wish to.

  "Do you remember," he said smiling, "how we spent an evening together before my wedding? Now I am a bachelor once more and we shall again try to cheer ourselves up with a couple of drinks and have a little pleasure. Your friend Teiser ought to be here; he knows how to make merry better than you and I. Give him my regards when you are back home. He can't bear me, but just the same--"

  With the steadily maintained cheerfulness that had been a characteristic of his best hours, he began to chat and to remind me of things that had taken place in the past, and I was surprised at how much he remembered. Even casual little things that I thought he had long forgotten remained in his memory. He had not even forgotten the very first evening I had spent at his house, together with Marian and Kranzl, and the way we had quarrelled. Only about Gertrude did he remain silent. He did not mention the period in which she had come into our lives and I was glad that he did not do so.

  I felt pleased about this unexpected enjoyable evening and let him help himself liberally to the good wine without admonishing him. I knew how rare these moods were with him, and how he cherished and clung to them when they occasionally came, and they never did come without the aid of wine. I also knew that this mood would not last long and that tomorrow he would again be irritable and unapproachable. Nevertheless it gave me a feeling of well-being and almost cheerfulness to listen to his clever, thoughtful, although perhaps contradictory observations. While talking, he occasionally directed one of his attractive glances at me, which he did only in such hours as these, and they were like the glances of one who had just awakened from a dream.

  Once, when he was silent and sat thinking, I began to tell him what my theosophist friend had said to me about the sickness of lonely people.

  "Oh," he said good-humoredly, "and I suppose you believed him. You should have become a t
heologian."

  "Why do you say that? After all, there may be something in it."

  "Oh, of course. Wise men continually demonstrate from time to time that everything is only imagination. Do you know, I often used to read such books in the past and I can tell you that they are of no use, absolutely no use. All that these philosophers write about is only a game; perhaps they comfort themselves with it. One philosopher preaches individualism because he can't bear his contemporaries, and another socialism because he can't endure being alone. It may be that our feeling of loneliness is an illness, but one can't do anything about it. Somnambulism is also an illness, and that is why a fellow suffering from it does in fact stand at the edge of a roof, and when someone calls out to him, he falls and breaks his neck."

  "That is quite different."

  "Maybe. I won't say I am right. I only mean that one doesn't get anywhere with wisdom. There are only two kinds of wisdom; all the rest is just idle talk."

  "Which two kinds of wisdom do you mean?"

  "Well, either the world is bad and worthless, as Buddhists and Christians preach, in which case one must do penance and renounce everything--I believe one can obtain peace of mind in this way--ascetics do not have such a hard life as people think. Or else the world and life are good and right--then one can just take part in it and afterwards die peacefully, because it is finished."

  "What do you believe in yourself?"

  "It is no use asking that. Most people believe in both, dependent on the weather, their health, and whether they have money in their purses or not. And those who really believe do not live in accordance with their beliefs. That is how it is with me too. For instance, I believe as Buddha did that life is not worthwhile, but I live for things that appeal to my senses as if this is the most important thing to do. If only it was more satisfying!"

  It was not yet late when we finished. As we went through the adjoining room, where only a single electric light was burning, Muoth took my arm and stopped me, switched on all the lights and removed the cover from Gertrude's portrait, which stood there. We looked once more at her dear, sweet face; then he placed the cover over the picture again and switched out the lights. He came with me to my room and put a couple of magazines on the table in case I should want to read. Then he took my hand and said quietly: "Good night, my dear fellow!"

  I went to bed and lay awake for about half an hour, thinking about him. It had moved me and made me feel ashamed to hear how faithfully he remembered all the small events of our friendship. He, who found it difficult to extend friendship, clung to those he cared for more fervently than I had thought.

  After that I fell asleep and had confused dreams about Muoth, my opera and Mr. Lohe. When I awoke, it was still night. I had been awakened by a fright that had nothing to do with my dreams. I saw the dull gray of approaching dawn framed by the window and had a feeling of deep anguish. I sat up in bed and tried to shake off my sleep and think clearly.

  Then there were heavy rapid knocks on my door. I sprang out of bed and opened it. It was cold and I had not yet switched on the light. The servant stood outside, scantily dressed, and stared at me anxiously with eyes full of terror.

  "Will you please come?" he whispered, panting. "There has been an accident."

  I put on a dressing gown and followed the young man down the stairs. He opened a door, stood back and let me enter. In the room there was a small cane table with a candelabrum on it in which three thick candles were burning. By the side of the table there was a disordered bed and in it, lying on his face, was my friend Heinrich Muoth.

  "We must turn him around," I said softly.

  The servant did not trust himself to do it. "I will fetch a doctor immediately," he said stammering.

  But I compelled him to pull himself together and we turned the recumbent man over. I looked at my friend's face, which was white and drawn. His shirt was covered with blood, and when we put him down and covered him up again, his mouth twitched slightly and his eyes could no longer see.

  The servant then began to tell me excitedly what had happened but I did not want to know anything. When the doctor arrived, Muoth was already dead. In the morning I sent a telegram to Imthor. Then I returned to the silent house, sat by the dead man's bed, listened to the wind in the trees outside, and only then realized how fond I had been of this unfortunate man. I could not mourn for him; his death had been easier than his life.

  In the evening I stood at the railway station and saw old Mr. Imthor step out of the train, followed by a tall woman dressed in black. I took them back with me to the dead man, who had now been dressed and placed on his bier among the flowers of the previous day. Gertrude stooped and kissed his pale lips.

  When we stood beside his grave, I saw a tall, attractive woman with a tear-stained face, who held roses in her hand and stood alone, and when I looked across at her curiously, I saw that it was Lottie. She nodded to me and smiled. But Gertrude had not wept; she looked straight ahead of her, attentively and steadfast, in the light rain scattered about by the wind, and held herself like a young tree supported by firm roots. But it was only self-restraint; two days later, when she was unpacking Muoth's flowers, which had meantime arrived at her house, she broke down and we did not see her for a long time.

  Chapter Nine

  MY GRIEF, TOO, only came to the fore later and, as is always the case, I thought of numerous instances when I had been unjust to my dead friend. Well, he had inflicted the worst things upon himself, and not only his death. I meditated for a long time about these things and could not find anything vague or incomprehensible about his fate, and yet it was all horrible and a mockery. It was no different with my own life, with Gertrude's, and that of many others. Fate was not kind, life was capricious and terrible, and there was no good or reason in nature. But there is good and reason in us, in human beings, with whom fortune plays, and we can be stronger than nature and fate, if only for a few hours. And we can draw close to one another in times of need, understand and love one another, and live to comfort each other.

  And sometimes, when the black depths are silent, we can do even more. We can then be gods for moments, stretch out a commanding hand and create things which were not there before and which, when they are created, continue to live without us. Out of sounds, words and other frail and worthless things, we can construct playthings--songs and poems full of meaning, consolation and goodness, more beautiful and enduring than the grim sport of fortune and destiny. We can keep the spirit of God in our hearts and, at times, when we are full of him, he can appear in our eyes and our words, and also talk to others who do not know or do not wish to know him. We cannot evade life's course, but we can school ourselves to be superior to fortune and also to look unflinchingly upon the most painful things.

  So during the years that have passed since Heinrich Muoth's death I have brought him to life again a thousand times, and have been able to talk to him more wisely and affectionately than I did when he was alive. And as time passed, my old mother died, and also pretty Brigitte Teiser, who, after years of waiting and giving the wound time to heal, married a musician and did not outlive her first confinement.

  Gertrude has overcome the pain she suffered when she received our flowers as a greeting and plea from the dead. I do not often speak to her about it although I see her every day, but I believe that she looks back on the springtime of her life as on a distant valley seen during a journey a long time ago, and not a lost garden of Eden. She has regained her strength and serenity and also sings again, but since that cold kiss on the dead man's lips, she has never kissed another man. Once or twice, during the course of the years, when her spirit had recovered and her being radiated the old charm, my thoughts traveled along the old forbidden paths and I asked myself: why not? But I already knew the answer, that no change could be made in our relationship with each other. She is my friend, and after lonely, restless periods, when I emerge from my silence with a song or a sonata, it belongs first and foremost to us both.

&nb
sp; Muoth was right. On growing old, one becomes more contented than in one's youth, which I will not therefore revile, for in all my dreams I hear my youth like a wonderful song which now sounds more harmonious than it did in reality, and even sweeter.

  Books by Hermann Hesse

  PETER CAMENZIND

  BENEATH THE WHEEL

  GERTRUDE

  ROSSHALDE

  KNULP

  DEMIAN

  STRANGE NEWS FROM ANOTHER STAR

  KLINGSOR'S LAST SUMMER

  WANDERING

  SIDDHARTHA

  STEPPENWOLF

  NARCISSUS AND GOLDMUND

  THE JOURNEY TO THE EAST

  THE GLASS BEAD GAME

  IF THE WAR GOES ON ...

  POEMS

  AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL WRITINGS

  STORIES OF FIVE DECADES

  MY BELIEF

  REFLECTIONS

  CRISIS

  TALES OF STUDENT LIFE

  HOURS IN THE GARDEN

  PICTOR'S METAMORPHOSES

  SOUL OF THE AGE: SELECTED LETTERS OF HERMANN HESSE

  GERTRUDE. Copyright (c) 1955 by Suhrkamp Verlag, Berlin. Revised translation copyright (c) 1969 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc., copyright renewed 1997. All rights reserved. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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